


Here they’ve called me Orpheus

by D20Owlbear



Series: GO in myth and legend [1]
Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Available to Podfic, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Saves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale-centric (Good Omens), Gen, Greek myth - Freeform, Inspired by Orpheus and Eurydice (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), M/M, Other, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Rated G for Implied Lyre-y Goodness, These idiots accidentally inspire a myth, moron4moron
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-13 08:11:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21240953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/D20Owlbear/pseuds/D20Owlbear
Summary: Here they’ve called me Orpheus, Crowley. Did you know?Aziraphale has been in Hell before the Notpocalypse, even if Crowley didn’t know it.Aziraphale-centric and POV of the telling of the story of Orpheus and Eurydice with himself and Crowley as the originators of the myth.





	Here they’ve called me Orpheus

Here they’ve called me Orpheus, Crowley. Did you know? I told them a story of mine, one from not too long ago, where you had fled from me. Not fled, that’s too strong of a word, but I couldn’t find you. I scoured all the earth for years and had been counseled that you were dead, discorporated permanently.

So I went down below, I found a secret, hidden entrance called Hades before it had been thought to be the underworld there at all, between two trees bowed over with age with sharp rocks lining the entrance. It didn’t look like Hell to me, not like it had sounded from the way you spoke about it. I was proven wrong though, soon. I went in and played my lyre for strength, it felt like a harp in my hand and reminded me of days long past when I had the fortitude to press on. And to this end I must press on, I told myself, for the days below the surface I wandered without sunlight and stumbled when the haze of Hell interfered with the light from my halo. 

In these wanderings, I came across a ghastly beast, one of the Hellhounds. It had been twisted into a singular creature where once there were three, three heads, many legs, and teeth the size of my fingers. It snarled at me and I was frightened, but I played my lyre to calm myself and sang to bolster my own spirits, but lo and behold, the creature turned to sleep. It had been soothed, or something, by my music, and with the sword on my waist (of course not the flaming one, that is still long gone) I killed it. It was only right that the creature would not have to live so corrupted.

So I went on, continuing to sing to myself and play my lyre until I reached something that may have been a mockery of the Throne of God. It was garish and tall and made of stone which radiated heat. I burnt my hand on it, fingertips really, it looked like the stone slab you keep. Is it because it holds heat? Or do you need the Hellfire infused in it? My burns won’t heal anytime soon, that is to be certain. It made plucking at the lyre more difficult, but I moved along, too disconcerted to remain there.

And then, finally, I found you. You were a wretched thing, my dear, I hate to say it. Bound tightly in iron bands inscribed with runes that looked to be perversions of Enochian, repeating patterns that terminated in your sigil. It was frightful, darling. 

I was frightened. So very, very frightened.

There were other demons there and they were  _ harming _ you, cutting into you with crude, dull knives, and taunting you. But still you didn’t stir, you moaned and were pained in your slumber, I can only assume it was forced. I can only hope it will wear off, my dear boy. But I could not stand to watch them hurt you like this, so I did what I was made to do, other than sing HER praises, of course. 

I shed my corporeal form, which is limiting at the best of times I ought to say, and it drew the attention of demons like moths to a flame. Which I suppose is apt, considering the flaming, well, me. And then I cut them down until the last pled for his life, knowing the fire on my blade was holy as it was an extension of me, not knowing if it would truly kill him or not. He pled and I listened, and he said he could deactivate the runes but it would require me to leave Hell before you could return to yourself. 

He warned me, trembling all the while, that if I glanced at these runes across your shoulders or spine or over your hips that you would perish. Knowing I had to have some sort of fabrication in order to keep you from being hurt again for our association, I told him you were mine to thwart and it does not to demons fall to be righteous but to angels, and my wide flung justice and vengeance against you, foul fiend, was best not to be stolen, for those who might steal from the fire of the LORD would also be cut down.

I do hope it works for you, my dear, I would ha- dislike, no I would hate for this to be a normal thing. Yes, that is how I feel, I should  _ hate _ to see you hurt again like this. At all, actually. Though you are a demon, and I an angel, I find myself worrying about you constantly.

And now, we are here. I gathered you in my arms and placed you on my shoulders so that I could not look at you by chance, once I regained my corporeal form. And I cannot feel your soul, you do not feel tethered to this body, but I cannot bring myself to  _ look _ , to check, for if I lost you due to my own folly I would surely perish. If I lost you, truly, I think I would not survive it. 

I think, my dear, it is best you are asleep, otherwise, you would most assuredly be in pain. Otherwise, assuredly, I would not be able to speak to you like this, for fear of your hearing it. I know that you are a demon unlike any other, I hold that so close to my heart that I think it has become a part of it, melted into it like gold across forge-hot workings. Malleable as the precious metal as it expands each time my heart has to fit some new aspect of you in it. I dare not call it love, I cannot, though to love is my purview as an angel. What would SHE say, what would the Host do, if they found something like this in me? 

What would they do to you?

Crowley! There! There is the gates, the sharp rocks that break through my shoes, I have never been so happy to see them! Soon, my dear, you will be free of this place, and your bonds will melt-

Oh, darling, I have forgotten about that. I cannot bring you from Hell with these bindings on you. Oh, my dear, what have I done? In my haste, I have left you unable to be healed. 

Wait here, dearest one, wait here, settled against the cave, and I will not look at you, I promise. But I will sit on the other side of the rocks, so I do not find you with my eyes as I long to, nor give in my desire to look you over and assure myself that you are whole, and I will not  _ see _ you and endanger you with my Knowing. 

There, dear demon, heal and listen to my song. I sing it for you, though perhaps I ought not. But I cannot bring myself to do otherwise. 

Please, my dear, come back to me. Or I shall haunt these very trees. Please stay by me, you are my wide-flung justice, my  Εὐρυδίκη, my Eurydice.


End file.
